


‘round you it revolves (i can’t shake it off)

by goforth



Category: Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist (TV)
Genre: Appearances By Everyone - Freeform, F/M, Fix-It, Getting Together, Margaritas & Jimmy Buffett, Swearing, but it's mainly zoey just getting her shit together, but we love her anyway, canonically takes place after episode 7, it doesn't go well, she makes lots of speeches, zoey throws a party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:47:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23387596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goforth/pseuds/goforth
Summary: “You’re throwing a party?”“Kinda, yeah. Just a small one.”“Sorry, let me rephrase that. You’re kinda throwing a small party for your agoraphobic neighbor so she can Skype in and, and I’m direct quoting here, ‘experience a luau, without leaving her apartment, so that she’ll want to leave her apartment?’”Or, Zoey and Max’s One Day.
Relationships: Zoey Clarke/Max Richman
Comments: 28
Kudos: 128





	‘round you it revolves (i can’t shake it off)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a product of self-isolation and an obsession with Zoey Clarke's extraordinary powers. Credit goes to Austin Winsberg, NBC, Weezer, Lizzo, and Skylar Astin's face. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, so please don't judge me too hard!

It starts with a Weezer song.

Not that Zoey knows it when she first hears it coming from apartment two. She has to ask Mo if he knows a song that mentions an  _ island? Maybe on the sun? _ and gets a heavy berating for her lack of pop culture knowledge. And while it’s nothing she hasn’t heard before, with everything else that’s been disastrously failing in her life lately, Zoey feels a little burned by it. Then she (hopelessly, stupidly) feels burned by the fact that, despite her attempts to get Bonnie out into the world that is her three-story apartment building, the woman is  _ still _ feeling songs about tropical vacations.

And, okay, that isn’t fair and Zoey knows it. Knows, on some level, what it’s like to be trapped by your fears. Knows what it’s like to want something so deeply but get caught up on the ideas of what if. What if Bonnie ends up going to Jamaica or Bermuda or Key Largo and gets some horrible disease? What if Bonnie doesn’t even make it to the plane, just steps right out onto the pavement to get in her Uber and gets caught in an unavoidable accident? What if Zoey admits that she loves Max, and not in that stupid friend way she keeps insisting on, and they date and he leaves and her dad dies and her world ends?

So, yeah. She can relate.

But that doesn’t mean she can just sit around and not do anything. It’s not a bad song or even a bad band, necessarily ( _ “Island in the Sun by Weezer, Zoey one-oh-none. Take a listen to the Green album and the Blue album, but skip the White one. Both the album and in life.” _ ), but it’s not something she wants to hear through the speakers of her new coffee shop, or coming from Tobin’s desk during their work Power Hour, or from the street performer that likes to hang out on the corner of her block. No one needs that much Weezer in their life. And since Rule One of her newfound superpower is that songs will only go away once you help the person with their problem, she figures a new solution for Bonnie is in order.

Mo does his best to offer up some solutions, but none of them seem to fit. Agoraphobia is something neither of them really seem to be able to wrap their heads around, much less understand, no matter how many articles Zoey’s been reading. Painting the hallway with a beach mural is too messy and too much of an eyesore. Polynesian takeout doesn’t fit under the door easily. And while palm trees could definitely survive in San Francisco's climate, it turns out that not only are they expensive, but that Bonnie’s windows face an alleyway.

And then, right when it feels hopeless, Zoey’s working late one night. To be more specific, she’s working late during a reinstated Family Game Night, where her mom moves the Scrabble puzzle pieces for her dad and David provides the snarky commentary and chocolate (with spinach) milkshakes. She’s supposed to be there, but this (possibly illegal?) earpiece project has been taking over her social life, so she misses it. And it feels so bad, and she feels so guilty, like she only has so many precious moments left, that she tells David to Facetime her in order to absolve some of the bad feelings. He does : props the phone right against the Scrabble box, so that David and Maggie take up the edges of the frame and her dad is front and center. It feels a little awkward at first, and she has to fight to get an audible word in, but it’s fun. And it feels like she’s right there with them, sorta.

That’s how she comes up with the terrible, awful, no-good idea to throw a party.

.

.

.

“You’re throwing a  _ party? _ ”

If things weren’t currently so weird with Max, Zoey would have been outwardly offended by his incredulous tone. But things are weird with Max—in a way that makes her want to cry and yell and go back to that ridiculous flash mob and start everything over—so she only offers a meek smile. “Kinda, yeah. Just a small one.”

“Sorry, let me rephrase that. You’re  _ kinda _ throwing a  _ small _ party for your agoraphobic neighbor so she can Skype in and, and I’m direct quoting here, ‘experience a luau without leaving her apartment so she’ll  _ want _ to leave her apartment?’”

They’re standing in the middle of the SPRQ Point office. It’s Monday, and Zoey is still riding the intense adrenaline (and anxiety) high of the party-planning she and Mo did over the weekend. There’s a certain element of parties that normally makes Zoey want to curl up into a ball and hyperventilate in the bathroom, but this one is different. This one is to help a friend. Or, rather, help an acquaintance-slash-neighbor she’s only talked to twice before. Whatever. She focuses her attention on Max and nods once, then twice. He’s wearing that nice shade of blue she likes on him so much and it’s kind of hard to concentrate. But she finds a way to focus.

“Yes, yeah. I am. Because I heard her singing about wanting to go away on a tropical vacation and, like I told you, the song won’t leave my brain until I help.” She widens her eyes slightly, hoping it’ll sway him somehow. Mo is always telling her that her doe eyes have an effect on men. And then she realizes that that’s a stupid thought, because she  _ knows _ it’ll have some sort of effect on him, and how that isn’t fair. Using the knowledge that Max has—had?—feelings for her just to get him to come to her party is wrong. So she shakes out of it, narrows her eyes slightly, and opens her arms in a sort of strange jazz hands kind of way.

Max can only raise an eyebrow in response. “Right. The songs. Your ‘superpower.’” Zoey can tell that he’s still skeptical about her recent life change. She chooses to ignore it. “And why do you need me there exactly?”

If Zoey’s hurt by his question (and that’s a big  _ if _ ), she tries her best not to show it. “Because you’re my friend! And… because I need bodies there. To look like I have a lot of friends. Which I don’t.”

“C’mon, Zoey, you have friends.” There’s a flash of uncensored sympathy and  _ affection _ in his eyes as he takes his bag strap off his shoulder. It throws her for a loop for the briefest of moments, like a ray of sunshine on an impossibly cloudy day. He distracts himself by moving to sit at his desk, almost as though he knows he’s revealing too much in his expression, and Zoey gulps down a lump that’s forming in her throat. After a beat, she decides to busy herself with her own desk. She doesn’t even look up when Max starts talking again. Vaguely she can register him counting on his fingers out of the corner of her eye, but, again. She’s not looking. “Me, Mo, Tobin, Leif, I mean, all the brogrammers, really, Joan—especially after your weird, drunk night out—Simon…”

His voice trails off for the briefest of moments. Zoey’s face burns.

It’s not really a  _ thing _ anymore—not after the engagement party fiasco—but it hangs between them like an elephant balloon anyway. Two months ago Simon wouldn’t have been anything more than a burden solely for Zoey to bear, forever in her solitude in dealing with a soul-squeezing crush. But now it’s Max’s secret too because he’s  _ made _ it his secret. It’s unspoken by everyone, sure, but that only makes it all the more recognizable. All the more  _ tangible.  _ Max and Zoey and Simon. She’d laugh at the ridiculousness of it all if it wasn’t, you know, her life.

Her gaze moves from her computer to his impossibly pained expression. He’s doing that thing again, where he’s pretending he doesn’t care but it’s written all over his face, and Zoey’s heart pangs in her chest. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m going to invite them all, but I wanted to run it by you first.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t think it’s a good idea then I won’t do it.”

It flies out of her mouth before she can even register it. It’s the truth, obviously, but she’s trying not to give him any mixed signals. Max’s unwavering, stable friendship is worth more than anything else. That’s what she told him and that’s how she feels. So she tries to follow it up quickly with a qualification. “I mean, I’m gonna do it regardless, because I can’t deal with this stupid song haunting me anymore. But I’d really like it if you were there.”

She watches as he releases a slow sigh, almost like he’s been holding it in for a while. Watches as his eyes fall back down to his desk, watches the slow shake of his head and the puff of laughter that escapes his lips. Watches as all the possible arguments for why he shouldn’t go pass through his mind. It gets to the point where she’s got an apology on the tip of her tongue and she’s prepared to tell him that the idea of a party is just a stupid idea. Visions of a night with just her and Mo, homemade mai tais in their hands and Bonnie watching disappointedly through her grainy screen, are already passing through her mind. And then Max’s head pops up from behind her computer. He smiles at her gently and her world tilts on its axis.

“What time should I be there?”

.

.

.

(The thing is, after her confession, things get a little weird with Max.

Zoey’s sure that goes without saying. Finding out that your best friend is in love with you and then  _ telling  _ him that you know he’s in love with you and then turning him down in the name of “friendship” will do that to a relationship. Still, it feels  _ weird _ , and it haunts their interactions for weeks. It’s not like Zoey was expecting things to just instantly go back to normal, but she didn’t expect it to have this lasting of an effect. Working together is fine, because they’re both professionals who like their jobs too much to jeopardize them, but their other interactions are tainted. It’s a permanent dark cloud looming over their heads. Movie nights stop happening. Max stops hanging out with Mo when Zoey is there. They don’t sit down and eat lunch together anymore. It’s all in the name of boundaries, and Zoey can definitely respect that, but it  _ hurts _ . She hates that she doesn’t have him there to make her laugh with his ridiculous Tinder pick-up lines, or throw popcorn in her hair like a child, or settle her nerves with his gentle reassurances.

She tries to analyze it one night. The sheets on her bed tangle with her incessant tossing and turning. Visions of his quirked smile, his one prominent dimple, and his warm eyes fill her with an inexplicable feeling, until she feels impossibly constricted by the layers on her body. She sheds off the blankets and wishes she was shedding off her skin, because Max feels intrinsically linked to it. She tells herself that it’s nothing, that she’s just feeling the loss of a friendship, but it doesn’t hold water. She doesn't get sleep that night. And when she stumbles into work the next day, sleep-deprived and colors dull, Max looks at her with a concern in his eyes that blows everything up again, so that all she’s left with is the debris of hopeless, stubborn feelings she’ll never be able to admit.

It’s just weird, is all.)

.

.

.

Everyone else’s invitations go slightly different:

“You really think me and my  _ very  _ pregnant wife would sacrifice a Friday night to go to some juvenile party?” asks David

“Uh, why, so I can drink skinny pina coladas and dish about the best tanning salons in town?” asks Tobin.

“This isn’t going to be one of those weird pig-heads-on-spears parties they keep doing in Calabasas, is it?” asks Joan.

“Is Joan going?” asks Leif.

“We just can’t mention it to Jessica, okay?” asks Simon.

Zoey knows they’ll all show up (well, besides David and Emily), but their answers don’t make her feel any better.

.

.

.

The flyers she passes out say seven-thirty sharp, but Mo informs her that no good party starts with people showing up on time.

She’s got a sneaking suspicion he’s only saying that to make her feel better, but she appreciates the gesture nonetheless. They’re hosting it in his apartment because it’s more equipped for having people. Only fifteen (sixteen, if you count the laptop perched on the kitchen counter for Bonnie) are expected to come, but there’s a warmth to Mo’s apartment that her own could never achieve. Plastic palm trees and leis and grass skirts are sprinkled around the living walk-in area, and it looks surprisingly nice. The matching Hawaiian-shirt-and-neon-skirt outfits are a bit much for Zoey’s taste, but Mo insists that themed parties start and end with the outfits, so she doesn’t  _ totally _ mind. He’s the more outgoing one, anyway, and therefore Zoey is happy to put her party life in his hands. It also helps that he keeps pushing shots on her ( _ “Confidence boosters, Zoey-bo-boey.” _ ) and by the time the first knock rings through apartment six at eight-fifteen, she’s got a buzz on.

“Am I in the right apartment? ‘Cause I thought I was going to a party, but this feels more like Jimmy Buffett’s funeral. Up top!”

It’s Tobin and Leif, of course. They’ve each got a case of Budweisers under their arms (which makes the high-fiving difficult) and a few other brogrammers trailing behind them. Eddie, surprisingly, is following them and looking horribly at out of place. Mo naturally runs towards, so Zoey is forced to interact with her employees. She downs her frozen drink and walks up to them, her smile wide and forced. “Hey, guys! Or should I say,  _ Aloha _ ! Thanks for coming!”

It sounds a little eager. Is she being too eager? The last time Zoey was at a house party was Simon and Jessica’s engagement party, so she’s not exactly well-equipped for handling this situation. Her mind is already racing with a hundred other things to say when the universe takes pity and makes the decision for her.

Tobin’s scowling as he answers. “Whatever. Do you at least have beer pong set up, or is this night a total waste?”

He’s already making a beeline for the fold-up table that’s replaced Mo’s kitchen table, so Zoey, thankfully, doesn’t have to answer. Leif is technically still there, but he’s talking to some guy she’s  _ sure _ she wrote about in her journal but can’t remember. Instead of engaging in further forced conversation, she grabs another drink and makes her way over to the computer. 

Bonnie’s not online yet. It’s gotta be the internet connection and not that her neighbor, the one she threw this whole party for, isn’t showing up (metaphorically or otherwise). Because that would mean this entire thing would be another unsuccessful idea, and that would be too much for Zoey to bear. She keeps refreshing Skype, over and over, the scowl deepening on her face and the drink getting smaller in her hand. Mo’s all but necking Eddie by the doorway and Tobin and Leif are starting a game of beer pong and Zoey… Is alone. Staring at a blank white screen, waiting for a face that isn’t going to pop up.

The sound of the door opening and closing comes and goes. Zoey drinks more.

Twenty minutes later she’s stuck in a conversation with Joan (who clearly made it a point to pregame before coming) and Leif (who clearly wishes Zoey wasn’t there). And then, like a beautiful saving grace, Max enters the slightly crowded apartment. For a brief moment she forgets about any lingering awkwardness and makes a beeline for him, hands flinging around his neck. He feels warm and smells like fresh laundry and coffee. It’s such a comforting scent that she doesn’t even panic over the fact that she knows what it looks like underneath his floral print shirt. “Max, thank  _ God _ you’re here. I never thought I was going to escape... Whatever’s going on over there.” She pulls back slightly from his warmth to nod her head towards her boss and coworker, who are talking a little too close for comfort. And  _ giggling _ . Since when did Joan giggle?

He gracefully untangles himself from her hold and she finds the decency to look embarrassed. She’s drunk, that’s all. Max will understand that. “Hey, Zoey. That’s what I’m here for; to save you from awkward interactions with our boss and our coworker who’s now apparently moved on to trying to sleep his way to the top. I’d kind of respect him for the gender flip on that if he wasn’t such a dick.”

“Tell me about it. Before you got here he tried to challenge me to a spelling contest where the winner got to pitch Joan on the new interface changes. I did the  _ entire _ thing.” His soft laugh fills her veins with something better than alcohol could ever give her. She smiles and nudges him gently. “Thanks for coming, by the way. It means a lot.”

“Well, you, uh. It seemed to be important to you. And besides, Mo said he’d give me some more workout tips from some new trainer in the valley, so. Couldn’t miss out on that.” His smile is simple and he’s acting like they’re just two friends talking at a party. Which they are. It doesn’t matter that he’s looking so  _ good _ in front of her and she’s already three drinks in and there’s a Shawn Mendes song itching at the corner of her brain. They’re friends, and this is how friends act.

“Drink?” She doesn’t wait for his answer as she makes her way to the standalone shelf that’s been turned into a makeshift bar. Zoey knows he’s following. The pulses of Mo’s Island Beats playlist are filling the space around them and she sways to the song playing as she pours him a (strong) margarita. “Here. Get on everyone else’s level, Maximillion.”

His eyebrows fly up into his hairline as he takes the blue plastic glass from her. “Maximillion? What am I, some oil tycoon in the twentieth centur—” The word is cut short by a fit of coughs that is, of course, the result of Max naively taking a healthy gulp of the drink she poured him. Zoey’s hand instantly flies to pat his back as he closes his eyes and shudders. “ _ Jesus _ , Zoey, what’d you do? Put an entire bottle of tequila in that thing?”

“No! I only put two? Maybe three shots? I don’t know, I eyeballed it! Here, have some water.” He’s still coughing as she hands him a safer liquid, and she’s trying not to laugh, she really is. But she’s feeling bubbly and loose and he’s looking ridiculous with his hand clutched over his chest like he’s dying, and she starts giggling. Max tries to look angry with her for half a second, but suddenly he’s laughing too.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I should have warned you.” The words are slipping out of her between bursts of laughter. She’s not even sure why it’s funny anymore, but it feels nice to laugh with him like this again.

“It’s okay, you’re just trying to kill me. I get it.” His body is shaking softly with his own laughter and soon they’re leaning towards each other, like two gossiping highschoolers in the corner of some basement party. Her head slots perfectly below his and he’s looking down at her with a fondness in his eyes that she isn’t sure she’ll ever get used to. If she just tilted her gaze up a hair more, she realizes, they’d be close enough to...

Suddenly there’s a soft  _ whoosh _ coming from the table and Zoey’s eyes go wide at the sound of a notification. Her laughter instantly ceases. “She’s on!” Her body is turning towards the kitchen counter and pulling the laptop closer to the edge before Max can say anything. “Hi, Bonnie! Thanks for tuning in!”

The figure on the other end looks impossibly uncomfortable, as though she’s there in the room with them rather than an entire floor below. She’s mumbling something that’s not quite audible, but it’s along the lines of “’s not like I had anything else to do.” Zoey doesn’t let it deter her, though. Because the party is happening and people are here and Max is here, standing tall next to her, and everything is going perfectly according to plan.

She turns her attention to the screen and tries to engage Bonnie in some party conversation, unaware of Max’s fleeting gaze and tired smile.

.

.

.

The next time Zoey registers her name being called in her direction, it knocks her heart to the ground.

“Zoey? Man, look at this place!”

It’s Simon, of course. No one else has anywhere near that kind of effect on her. (Or, at least, almost no one.) She’s got enough alcohol in her system that she’s prepared to handle this, but it’s still a little strange that he even showed up. She didn’t think he’d show up. Why did he show up?

It takes her a moment to snap back into reality. “Simon! Hey!” She drags out the  _ hey _ as she pulls him into an awkward one-armed hug, careful not to splash her margarita on his shirt. “Thank you  _ so  _ much for coming, I know Bonnie really appreciates it.”

He’s got an easy kind of smile on his face as he pulls away, and it makes her insides melt. “Oh, right! Your neighbor. Is she having a good time?” He’s nodding towards the computer behind her as it rests on the counter, where Bonnie’s face is filling the screen. She’s even got a Corona bottle in her hand, which Zoey has yet to come up with a good explanation for. Still, her heart fills with a sort of warmth that she registers as half alcohol, half knowing she did something good for someone new.

Of course, like an idiot, she shrugs over-exaggeratedly towards Simon. “I think so? At least, I hope so.”

He nods and grins like he can see right through her. The prospect makes her skin crawl. Unlike her and Max, Simon and Zoey are  _ not _ friends. Can’t be friends. As a result, it’s been a long month of navigating through strictly-business conversations and pleasant small talk. It was hard at first, sure, but they’ve settled into it. Going from baring your soul every other day to keeping it platonic takes an adjustment period. And, okay, sometimes there’s an uncaught glance of longing from one of them, but it gets easier every day. Looking at him doesn’t hurt like it once did.

(And if she’s heard whispers of a postponed wedding and of rethinking things and of  _ taking a step back _ , it wouldn’t be any of her business.)

“I hope so. I mean, you and Mo really killed it on these decorations. And his mix is crushing it, as usual.”

She hums her agreement and takes another gulp of her drink. Her brain yells at her to slow down on the alcohol, but what does it know? All it’s been giving her lately are musical numbers that are slowly ruining her life, so her brain can deal. “Yeah, totally. I mean, I was a little nervous about this at first—I’m not usually throwing parties, or even going to parties—but I think it worked out. And Bonnie seems to be getting something out of it, so that’s nice.”

Simon’s looking at her with a bit of a twinkle in his eye as he takes the smallest of steps towards her. Zoey’s pretty sure she stops breathing for a moment. “Y’know, I think it’s really amazing that you’re doing all of this for her, Zoey. You’re amazing.” Her heart flutters in a way that she hates, that she doesn’t recognize. “I can’t believe I’ve been fighting it for this long.”

She’s ready to tell him that he’s  _ way  _ more amazing (because hey, she’s drunk and drunk people don’t have a filter and she’s allowed to think her work-friends are amazing) when she hears the unmistakable horn of a trumpet.

Oh  _ no _ .

“I’m crying… ‘Cause I love you!”

Suddenly Simon is singing. Intensely. Like a reflex, she panickedly looks around at the party to see if anyone else notices. No one does, of course, because it’s only in her head, and people don’t just go around singing their feelings out loud. (Unless they’re Max.) She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to concentrate on putting some sort of blocker up in her mind, but the room just spins.

Simon keeps singing. Anxiety bubbles in her bones as she takes a step back from him, only to have him step forward. And then he’s getting down on his knees with the key change. She  _ really  _ needs to get a grip on this situation.

“Stop! Stop, stop stop stop, please don’t do this Simon…” Her shrill voice travels above the Cardi B remix that’s filling the space of the rest of the world’s reality and Zoey’s vaguely aware of several pairs of eyes turning to look at her. She can’t think about that, though, not when Simon is singing to her at her party. Especially not when Simon’s singing to her like  _ this  _ at her party. Her hands reach up to grab his sturdy shoulders, hoping physical contact will snap him out of it. “Hold in your feelings, okay? Just… rein ‘em in. Keep ‘em locked. Think about Jessica!”

He’s not listening to her, clearly. He’s lost in his dream song, a surprisingly soulful ballad about love, and it'd have been impressive if it didn’t make Zoey want to sink into the floor. She’s not supposed to know that things aren’t great with Jessica and she’s  _ definitely  _ not supposed to know that he, apparently, thinks he loves her. What is it with her male friends thinking that sort of thing lately?

Once it ends, a painful three minutes later, Simon’s standing impossibly close to her. He doesn’t know he'd just sang his heart out to her, of course, but he certainly knows what he’s doing now. In a flash her hands are being engulfed by his larger ones, and her throat constricts tighter. “Zoey…”

His head moves down half an inch. Inexplicably, her head moves to look at the room around them. If people are still paying attention, which she’s certain they are, they’re doing a good job of hiding it. Beer pong balls are still flying across the fold-up table and a dance circle has formed next to it. Her gaze doesn’t stop frantically searching until it lands on a face that’s already looking at her. She doesn’t waver from Max’s unreadable expression when she finds a way to shift back into focus. “Simon, wait. Don’t do this.”

He must turn his eyes to follow hers, because he (finally) takes a step back. A harsh laugh passes his lips as he reaches up to drag his hand down his face. It’s a stark contrast from what he’d been doing just seconds ago. “Is it because of Max? He’s not good for you, Zo. I know you guys are tight, or whatever, but he’s just…  _ boring _ . He doesn’t have the kind of connection we have. You have to see that.” His voice raises like he can’t quite control the volume and she retreats into her body like she’s trying to make herself small.

Her voice is a controlled whisper as she crosses her arms in front of her chest. For the quickest of seconds, she considers apologizing, but her mouth starts moving before her brain can protest. “It’s not because of Max. It’s because of  _ you _ , Simon! You’re  _ engaged _ and I shouldn’t have to be reminding you of that and I  _ definitely  _ shouldn’t be letting you toss my feelings around like this just because you’re confused. I deserve better than that. I deserve someone who puts me first, always.”

He blinks at her like he’s just been stung. It doesn’t make her feel any better. 

“Look, I…” She tries to start a sentence, or a word, or even just a syllable, but her voice doesn’t belong to her anymore. Her knees buckle and Mo side-eyes her from his space on the makeshift dance floor and Simon is looking at her like he’s so  _ hurt _ and everyone else is looking at her like she’s single-handedly just ruined a perfectly okay party and Zoey, suddenly, just needs to take a moment.

.

.

.

“You okay?”

Actually, Zoey can’t breathe and the walls are closing in on her and  _ why did she ever think she could host this stupid party _ , but he can’t possibly know that. So she keeps her grip on the fence on Mo’s tiny balcony and breathes through her nose and says, “Totally fine. Just needed some fresh air.”

When Max slides next to her on the balcony she can practically feel the doubt in his voice. “You sure? You kind of freaked out back there.”

A laugh that borders on manic passes her lips. It’s been a hell of a night, and it sort of feels like this is the last thing she needs. But then she turns to him, and looks at his kind, expressive face, and realizes that he’s always what she needs. “Okay, maybe I’m not. I heard another… song, or whatever. I know you think I’m lying when I say that, and I can’t blame you. Maybe I am actually going crazy.”

Max lets out a sigh and her knuckles go white. He’s not looking at her anymore so Zoey doesn’t look at him either. “From Simon.”

It’s not a question and it doesn’t feel like one. It feels like an accusation and a realization and a surrender at all once. She doesn't have the mental capacity to lie, so she gives her answer to the cool California air in front of her. “Yeah, from Simon.”

Silence hangs heavy between them as Zoey waits. She waits for him to yell and remind her that Simon is _still_ _engaged_ as far as they know. But he doesn’t, and somehow it makes it so much worse. They haven’t acknowledged this in so long and she’d been foolishly hoping they’d never have to. But now it’s here and she can’t _we’re friends, buddy!_ her way out of it.

“You love him?”

His voice is soft and gentle, like he’s asking solely for her benefit. Like he knows the answer is yes and he’s just trying to get her to realize it, too. Tears prickle at the corner of Zoey’s eyes— _ why did she have to drink so much? _ —at the sentiment. She can only laugh, somehow, as she reaches up to brush them away. “No, I don’t. I thought I might but… I don’t.” She wants to give him more, but it’s all the explanation she has. Because it’s just a simple truth, and simple truths never need any embellishing. “Guess I could have found a better way to tell him than in front of our coworkers and boss, huh?”

Max twists to look at her again. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but it closes before anything comes out. In turn, she makes an attempt at a reassuring smile. It falls short. All she’s left with is his look of surprise and her stinging embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Max. For making a scene. Everyone must hate me for ruining the party.”

This seems to pull him whatever daze he was in because he’s quickly shaking his head. “No, no, you didn’t ruin anything. Simon left like, right after, so no one even remembers what happened.” He’s lying and they both know it, but it’s comforting to her nonetheless. She watches as the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting a smile and watches as he turns his body towards hers. “I’m, uh, glad you’re over him.”

He looks like he wants to say more. But he doesn’t, so Zoey just smiles softly and nods. “Me too.” It feels like she means it. 

They stand there for a moment, smiles on their faces. Their shoulders are touching and their hands are dancing towards each other across the railing. People are most certainly starting to trickle out, because it’s gotta be passed two in the morning at this point, and in a few minutes Max will be gone too. So she revels in a moment a little longer, happily letting the things bubbling up between them go unsaid.

.

.

.

The next morning, when her head is pounding and her stomach’s contents have been (repeatedly) emptied and she’s nothing more than a shell of a person, Zoey gets an email.

**To** : zoeyclarke@sprqpoint.com  
**From** : bonnie1212@aol.com  
**Subject** : Party Recording 

Zoey,

I recorded the party so I could watch it later for inspiration or whatever. I was watching the footage and came across this moment. Thought you might want to see it.

Cordially,

Apartment 2 (Bonnie)

P.S. Thanks for the party.

She quickly marks it back to unread and rushes towards her bathroom, a new kind of nausea filling her.

.

.

.

Four days pass before she watches the recording.

No one mentions the Simon incident when she goes into work. He doesn’t come in on Monday, which probably helps, but it’s still surprising. She’d armed herself with apologies and dismissive jokes over the weekend, but only a few comments are made in the end. Tobin gives her a head-nod and a “sweet luau,” Leif gives her an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and Joan elects to not say anything at all. Even Max just sends her a smile before launching into work. It’s heaven-sent and wonderful and  _ normal _ and Zoey relaxes into the week at SPRQ Point. It’s only when she goes home and sees her laptop perpetually open to her inbox that she feels the aftershocks of Friday night.

The unread email screams at her every time she walks into her apartment. Bolded, angry, accusing. Whenever she makes a move to just  _ open it already _ , something inside her coils back. What if it’s embarrassing? What if it’s Bonnie forcing her to confront her fucked up life and the fact that, no matter how hard she tries, she’ll never be the type of person to have real friends who enjoy going to her parties? There can only be one reason that Bonnie, her reclusive neighbor who actively tries  _ not _ to interact with other humans, would send her this. And it’s clearly because she did something terribly wrong.

It takes her three days to call her mom to talk about it, desperate for an unbiased opinion, and another day and a half to take the plunge. “Just open it,” Maggie implores as she prunes her roses. “You’ll feel better, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. Ignoring it won’t make it go away.”

Finally, on a Wednesday night, with her mom’s advice imprinted in her brain and a full glass of wine on her bedside table, Zoey decides it’s time to play the recording.

Someone must have moved the laptop to a more central location, because she finds herself watching Simon storm from the back doorway to the hallway of the apartment through Bonnie’s eyes. Judging from the shift in everyone’s movements she can tell that it’s moments after she’d bolted the porch. She’s mentally preparing herself for some trash-talking by her colleagues (and friends) when Max cuts into the screen.

“Hey man, is she okay?”

Even through the grainy recording Zoey can see Simon’s annoyance. He stops his movements to turn around and face Max, who looks like he’s bracing himself for a confrontation. It feels like she’s watching something she shouldn’t, but Bonnie must have sent it to her for a reason. So she waits. And she watches.

“Yeah, dude, she’s fine. And all yours, apparently.” Simon’s throwing his jacket around his shoulder and turning to leave, but then he turns to face Max again. Max, of course, is looking painfully confused. It all feels insanely dramatic. “I just don’t get it, dude. I mean, you guys are good friends, and that’s… Whatever, that’s fine, but her and I have a  _ connection _ . If she wants to pretend like we don’t and choose you then I won’t stop her.”

A lump tightens in her throat for the umpteenth time at Simon’s coolness. He’s hurt, and she can see that, but she feels a wave of hurt and guilt crash over her anyway. Part of her wants to close the laptop and end it there, but then she hears Max speak again. And he sounds… Angry.

“Look, Simon, I don’t know what you think is going on between me and Zoey, but we’re friends. That’s it. So don’t blame me for your stupid shit. Zoey’s an incredible person and clearly you know that, so I really don’t understand how you can keep leading her on like this. I know you go to her for personal things that you don’t seem to tell anyone else, and that’s great, but you’re messing with her feelings, and she doesn’t deserve that. She has nothing but kind and patient with you and instead you’re treating her like some back-up option. She’s a  _ first _ option, Simon. So don’t try and turn it into something it’s not because frankly, you’re just being a dick.”

All she can do is stare at the screen. She feels like she did when she was watching the newest superhero movie; her, sitting in the theater, becoming engrossed in a story that wasn’t and never would be hers, but feeling like it was an extension of her life anyway. After a few agonizing moments, Simon nods once and reaches up his hand in a half-wave. Zoey lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding in.

“Bye Max.”

And then Simon’s gone, and Max is turning to make his way out of the frame, and the recording stops. Leaving Zoey to stare at her own reflection in the now black screen and process what she just saw, what she just heard. It’s strange, considering everything that had just unfolded, but Simon’s last word is the only thing left echoing through her mind.

Max.

Max, who’s always been there. Max, who fought some tech bro hipster over a scooter for her while she was drunk and on the verge of losing everything. Max, who knows her father and her mother and who’s been to her family barbecues and holidays and sits at the table like he belongs there. Max, who makes her laugh and smile. Max, who organized an entire fucking  _ flash mob _ for her in a goddamn food court, just so he could sing his feelings for her out loud, for everyone to hear.

_ Max _ .

In a flurry of impossibly fast movements, Zoey is tossing her laptop aside and bolting out of her bed. It’s a Wednesday night and she technically has no idea where Max is, but her body fills with an inexplicable need to find him. She needs to tell him that she’s sorry and that she’s an idiot. Needs to tell him that he’s the only one she wants to talk to when something goes wrong at work or when they find another problem with her dad. Needs to tell him that he’s her person, now and probably forever, and it’s crazy that she didn’t think she could risk it all for him before. Her body is on cruise control as she throws on a bra and a fresh new pair of pants. She's balancing running a brush through her hair and tossing on her sneakers, body twisting uncomfortably to the side. Five minutes later she’s speeding out her front door, the fingers on her right hand frantically searching through every form of Max’s social media while the fingers on her left grab blindly for her house keys.

If Zoey believed in fate, she’d think it was destiny that Max chooses the exact moment she steps out of her apartment to step out of Mo’s. But she doesn’t believe in fate, really, so she chalks it up to a beautiful coincidence.

“Max! What are you doing here?”

His head snaps up to look at her and it looks like he feels as though he’s been caught red-handed. It’s not like they’re avoiding each other or anything, but there’s been a palpable feeling of unrest between them since her party. Having a rather intimate moment at two in the morning can do that to people, apparently. “Zoey! Hey! I was just grabbing those workout plans from Mo that I mentioned earlier.” They find their way to the middle of the hallway, and while they both make the motion to initiate a hug, they end up simply (and awkwardly) shaking hands. One of Max’s hands is clutching a mass of papers that she assumes were provided by Mo, so he uses the other to motion towards the stairs in front of them. “Were you, uh, stepping out? To go somewhere?”

He looks so stupidly handsome that Zoey forgets how to speak for a moment.  And then he’s smiling at her in the way he always does, in a way that’s only meant for Zoey Clarke, and the words start tumbling out of her before she can stop them. She’s breathless from the anticipation of everything and the knowledge that she’s finally,  _ finally  _ going to tell him how she feels. How she really, truly feels, without the fear or the what-ifs.

“It’s you, Max.” His expression changes from pleasant to startlingly dumbfounded, but she musters up the strength to continue on. It’s now or never. “God, it’s  _ always  _ been you. I’ve been trying to fight it and pretend like your friendship is more important, but it’s not. I mean, it is, but only because you’re  _ so  _ important to me. And I’ve been so dumb and so blind for so long, but I’m not anymore. I heard what you told Simon during the party and it made me realize that I want to watch movies with you, and get coffee with you, and go on dates with you, and kiss you whenever I feel like it, just because I can.”

Funnily enough, the first thing she thinks after she finishes is that it’s the second speech she’s made in the past week. It feels a little ridiculous, as she stands there in the hallway of her building, heart bare in the space between him. Zoey’s told him everything she feels and now there’s nowhere to hide. She thinks about how, if this were a cheesy rom-com he’d made her watch, she’d be making fun of that speech.  _ Oh well _ , she reasons.  _ Too late to take it back now. _

“What?”

Max is looking at her like he doesn’t quite believe what’s going on. Like maybe he’s not the Tom Hanks to her Meg Ryan after all. Zoey’s face burns with the possibility of rejection, but she finds the strength to press forward. It feels freeing in an incredible kind of way, to own up to what she’s been quietly feeling for the past few weeks. And even if he tells her he doesn’t feel the same way anymore, and that she’s lost her chance, at least she’d have put it all out there for him. “I’m saying that I love you, Max. I’m  _ in  _ love with you. I can sing a song about it, if you want, but it’d just be me singing alone in this hallway.”

At all once, he’s laughing like he finally gets it and Zoey's anxious heart steadies. His face is positively  _ beaming _ . “No, please don’t. I know how tone deaf you are.” 

And then he’s closing the space between them and pulling her perfectly into him, and when their lips finally meet in the middle, it feels like Zoey is home. He’s smiling and whispering  _ I love you _ against her mouth, over and over, and she swallows his words eagerly as her hands tangle themselves through his hair. There’s not a symphony of violins filling her head like she’d been expecting, but rather a blissful melody that feels entirely  _ theirs _ . It’s the best song she’s ever heard.

If either of them hears the door to Mo’s apartment open, they don’t feel the need to look. “Thank you,  _ God! _ Mo is Team Max all the way, baby!”

.

.

.

The next time Zoey hears a happy song in her head, it isn’t coming from anyone but her.


End file.
